String
by big tears
Summary: A small collection of (very) short stories. Slight VioletxHook-Handed Man. Complete.
1. She Would Be Juliet

**Disclaimer:** Not mine.

* * *

Eighteen is such an awful age. Unruly boys and shattered relationships falling around her ankles -- there are times she just doesn't know what to do. Especially when it comes to running from all of those things she doesn't want to see.

Especially when it comes to running.

It's not just one man chasing her, any more. And it's no longer a group effort, though she knows that each one of them wants her for their individual reasons: Money. Domination. Pain.

But one... he's very different, and she can see it in his eyes. He wants a hold on her out of desperation, because he's never had anything worth holding, before.


	2. He Takes Himself So Seriously

It all comes down to luck, in the end, and no one in their family has really had much of it. Mother's first fiancee going crazy, father's parents dying at such an early age -- not to mention Violet being so far away and Sunny being...

...And Sunny's light having gone out.

So Klaus sits in the alley behind a bookstore, waiting for the customers to leave, hoping that the owner forgets to lock the back door, again. Because that doesn't mean he's breaking the law when he comes in at night, resting his head on the arm of a rather nice plaid sofa. It just means the owner's irresponsible.

He misses Violet and Sunny, even more than he misses their parents. Traumatic events have a way of strengthening bonds, and he cries on the arm of that plaid sofa, sometimes. Cries because life is too short and much too unfair. Certainly, such a small child as Sunny shouldn't have died that early.

Certainly, Violet hadn't deserved a bit of what happened to her. Hooks are such deadly things, after all, and she'd become so _strange _since they'd been running for their lives.

There is no way, Klaus tells himself, that she knew what she was doing.


	3. The Man is a Mystery

Promises are funny things. Like bones. They can be strong enough to save lives, or easily broken -- ground into powder. And he likes the weak kinds best of all.

He wants to grind her into powder. Because, pretty or not, she gets in the way far too often, now. She wants to know things she shouldn't, wants to do things she usually wouldn't.

It's really too bad that girls have to come with brains. Especially girls as pretty as she is.


	4. Become a Shrinking Flower

There's a soundtrack playing in her head. And, while not entirely sure what it is or where it's from or how she knows each and every word to each and every song, she loves it dearly. There are violins -- several of them -- and a piano; a harp.

A man is singing in a distinctly British accent, his voice gravelly and low, as though he's been drinking for the past hour and hasn't had time for a vocal warm-up. _Don't worry,_ he croons...

_Don't worry, pretty Violet;  
Your time just isn't now.  
They aren't going to kill you, yet,  
So don't try too hard to forget  
The man with one eyebrow._

_Though tears may fall and blood may slip  
From pale and slender fingertips;  
Though life may seem so very hard,  
And death will not loosen his grip --  
You mustn't pout._

_Please do not ask me "What about?"_

_Don't worry, pretty Violet;  
Your time just hasn't come.  
They have to look and find you, yet,  
And once they do, they'll sure regret  
Every thing that they've done._

And it's comforting, in a way, to have this foreign voice whispering things that no one else can hear.


	5. Her Mind is On Vacation

Violet Baudelaire had been sitting for three hours.

She counted every minute. Every second. Nervous white fingers twisting around the hem of a white hospital gown; dark eyes staring blankly at whatever vast fantasy her mind had spun. Shallow breathing, accompanied by the rustling of cotton sheets beneath her, were the only sounds in the room.

Beside the bed, there stood a small silver trolley with a slice of chocolate cake on top. Two balloons had been tied around the handle, both of which were dark purple. _Happy Birthday!_ read one. _Happy Anniversary! _read the other.

Three hours and sixteen minutes.

It was her nineteenth birthday, and her one-year arrival anniversary. For three-hundred and sixty-five days, she had been living in St. Devereaux Asylum. Locked away specially, under care of three doctors and several interns.

The nurses all prayed for her. Not because it was expected of them, though most people _could_ find it in their hearts to pity such a poor young thing. Bravery huddled beneath the blankets of her silence. Nightmares behind curtains of dark hair.

And that's why...

_"...Lord, please find it in your heart to comfort Violet Baudelaire. I know she's been through something horribly bad..."_

_"Please -- please bless her, in her catatonic state, that she might know there are those who love and care about her."_

But they're not entirely sure about it, themselves. She was brought in by a man wearing tan breeches and a dusty pink coat, which had shredded arms. He didn't leave a name -- only set her, very gently, on the floor in front of the glass doors and walked away. It seemed as though there was no emotional attachment. His eyes held no tears, no look of fear or pain or regret.

How was _anyone_ to know that she was loved, after such a mild exhibition of kindness -- most likely kindness from a stranger?

And he would have to have been a stranger. Very few eighteen-year-old girls know men with hooks for hands.

* * *

_e.n.d._


End file.
